“What is all this?” Jim asks. By the look of the light through the shades, it’s midday.
“Some song, I guess I wrote it, but—“
“You don’t remember?”
“I guess maybe my reading lessons are fucking me up good, but isn’t that the point? There’s no out. He has it all covered, all the bases. There will be an anti-Christ because there has to be an anti-Christ. No matter how insane the story, we’re sinking into the weeds of whatever scrap we can latch on to. We are fucked.”
“Not if you shoot the moon.”
“Excuse me?” William exclaims.
“You heard me, shoot the moon.”
“What exactly do you mean, Jim?” William asks.
“I mean the moon test, the cycle over and over again. Shoot the moon. That is not a lie. But you have to obtain position first, position on a platform that can truly amplify your thoughts.”
“I have no fucking clue what you are talking about, you know that, right?”
“You are nearing the end of your lessons, pretty soon you will be naming the names and screaming into the microphone. Do that, and I will position those who know how to do the rest.”
“Maybe I don’t want to anymore.”
No sooner had William said this everything went black.
*
A non-threatening rhythm of knocks brings William back from the black. Memory of what preceded the black is hazy. William glances at the scrap paper where his song lay scribbled and creased, then rises from the floor like Lazarus to answer the door.
It’s Pamela.
“You look awful, what’s wrong?”
William just shakes his head. Pamela takes the cue and lets it drop. “C’mon, I’m taking you to a movie.” And to preempt any resistance she grabs and tugs William’s arm before he can dig in his heels.
*
“Batman Vs. Superman? Ok, if you want to.”
“I just really love Ben Afflack, don’t you?” William detects the I’m-clearly-fucking-with-you look and nods his head. “But seriously, there’s really nothing else that looks interesting.”
“Well ok then.”
They enter the theater a bit late, mercifully missing the front-loading of ads and previews. Then the screen widens.
As the seemingly gobbled narrative unfolds, William feels increasingly unsettled. The disjointedness of William’s inner landscape is suddenly being reflected on the big screen. Weird scenes emerge, Superman (in a Pyramid?) with winged reptilian looking creatures, shaky plot development, like too many ideas struggling for attention (or better editing), questions of god and man and a well-played scientist psychopath accessing other-worldly information to conjure a raging monstrous entity that kills the godlike Superman.
And the very end, when Luthor let’s Batman know the bell has been rung and he’s coming. A heavy sense of doom fills the theatre. William half-expects a portal to open up on the screen like the scene in Donnie Darko—reality coming apart at the seams.
The movie ends and Pamela signals her intention to leave with a soft tug on William’s shirt-sleeve. They get up and head toward the exit. William breathes a sigh of relief as he breathes the fresh air and looks at the expanse above where really anything could be coming.
“Could you drop me off? I’ve got some things to work on.”
“I didn’t think the movie was all that good, but it seemed to have an effect on you.”
“It did, and I got to work it out before I can talk about it.”
“Ok.” Pamela says. William marvels at how well she picks up on when to give him space.
Back at the apartment, William gets to work scribbling the lines as they come.
Archons up above in
the treason of the sky
Supermen dream Saturn dreams
forgetting how to die
their dreams become a net
the net becomes a field
towers hold it up
so darker forces yield
names are interchangeable
mutants walk the earth
pyramids stay silent
to speak now is to curse
Okay, now that that’s finished, William thinks, time to go. And he does.
*
The next day it’s as if the clouds have briefly cleared and brilliant shafts of light flood the valley. William realizes it’s been weeks since he’s been on a good ride, so he packs up some snacks and other essentials and heads out.
William pushes himself at first, mind set on making it all the way to Alberton Gorge by noon, but soon William is huffing enough to ease up. With an activity like biking, an ambitious goal can be quickly displaced by physical limitations. Too bad the same doesn’t go for cerebral exertion, William thinks. No warning ache of lung when researching madness and on the verge of exceeding one’s capacity to be exposed to the thin air without succumbing.
Ronald Rump and Malory Minton shouldn’t be the focus, William thinks, that part of the fight has already been lost. Maybe earth has already been lost and we just don’t know it yet. Maybe there’s more after this life, a spiritual war waiting on the next plane of existence.
“Maybe you just need to stop.” Jim screams.
William crashes hard. Everything goes black.
*
There’s truth that lives and truth that dies, but I don’t know which, so nevermind.
-Leonard Cohen
William wakes, head screaming in pain. Trying to move brings more pain, maybe broken bones. Through the darkness William can see his mangled bike further down the embankment, near the river.
“No one is going to help you.” Jim says.
“I don’t believe you.” William replies. “You aren’t Jim.”
“Oh yeah? So who am I?”
“I don’t know, but this is all wrong. You are all wrong.”
“Is that any way to talk to your muse, William? You have songs piling up in your head that could bring our message to the masses, but now here you are, broken in the dirt.”
“Go away.” William screams.
“My work has been wasted on you, I can see that now. Some other vessel will have to deliver our disclosures.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“That’s not for you to know, William. We’re moving on.”
“You’ve been lying to me from the beginning, haven’t you?”
“No, you lie to yourself, just like all the useless eaters do, it’s far from original, more like part of the program.”
“Where am I?”
“ICU, St. Pats.”
“Will I live?”
“Depends on how you define living.”
“Will I remember any of this?”
“Boss says no.”